


Rocking Around (The Christmas Tree)

by TheStrange_One



Series: 12 Days of Christmas [2]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Character Dying, Cinderella - Freeform, Family, Fantasy, M/M, Sickness, medieval setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:09:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21780721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStrange_One/pseuds/TheStrange_One
Summary: On the second day of Christmas my True Love gave to me--A fairy tale.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: 12 Days of Christmas [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1568926
Comments: 7
Kudos: 70





	Rocking Around (The Christmas Tree)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littleonevixen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleonevixen/gifts).



> I know the ending is a little rushed, but I wanted to get this out TODAY. :) Please be kind.

“Are you serious?” Peter asked his father grimly.

Tony, resplendent in the opulent robes of his office, shifted nervously under his son’s scrutiny. “Well,” he admitted, “yes.”

Peter gently rubbed his temples in an almost heartbreaking mimicry of Tony when he was fighting off a headache. “Pops?” he demanded.

The blond, muscular man shifted just as nervously as Tony did. “I don’t agree with the methods,” Steve said slowly, “But he has a good point.”

“Good point?!” railed Peter. He gestured wildly. “Sticking me in a large room with _every_ possibly eligible person in the city?”

Tony sighed. He understood his son’s position very well, he really did. He’d tried to do it the hard way, to allow Peter to find someone he was interested in on his own. Unlike his own father he didn’t care if Peter hooked up with someone royal, noble, merchant, or peasant as long as the two were in love and Peter stood a chance of having a good relationship. However, time was running out.

“I don’t care if you choose someone rich or poor, male or female,” Tony said. “Hell, if you fall in love with a man you can do like I did and go and adopt a child. There are plenty who need adopting. _You_ know.” Peter nodded grimly. Tony still didn’t agree with his son’s decision to go out into the courts of the capitol alone firsthand—but he couldn't deny it was coming in handy. Peter already knew more about the municipal courts of the country than Tony did—which was part of the problem. “You also know,” Tony added, “ that you can’t rule while you’re single. You _must_ have a spouse, or the crown will pass to the next candidate.” A cold chill ran through Tony’s blood at the mere thought of the Osborns taking the throne. 

P eter’s face flushed. “This is  _humiliating_ ,” the boy protested.

It was. Tony hadn’t enjoyed being paraded about as a piece of meat himself—but if he hadn’t been he never would have met Steve. He wanted to tell the boy to forget it, to pretend the conversation never took place—but he couldn't. They were running out of time.

“Peter.” As always, Steve’s calm voice was soft with a core of iron. “Can you tell us that there is someone, anyone who has gotten your attention?”

The flush deepened and the boy looked away. “No,” he admitted.

“Then the plan stays. By inviting as many eligible people as possible we increase the chances of finding one you’ll be interested in and who will be interested in _you_.”

Peter sighed with exasperation. “All anyone will be able to see,” he protested, “is Peter the Prince. They won’t want to get to know me, or learn about the kingdom…” The boy trailed off and looked beseechingly at his parents. “I want a  _partner_ ,” he whispered. “Someone who can depend on me, that I can depend on. Not—not some little milk-sop who thinks that being Royal means trying on pretty clothes all day.”

Tony couldn't help the wry smile on his face. Clearly, Peter had met his fellow nobles. “ That’s why,” he said gently, “it’s also open to peasants and merchants.”

P eter threw both arms into the air. “That’s not the  _point_ !” he yelled. He huffed, sighed, and hung his head. “I’ll be at the ball,” he grumbled.

“Good,” Tony grit out around the sudden pain in his chest.

Steve, noticing the difference in his husband, quickly pulled Peter aside so their son wouldn't notice. “We won’t make you wear anything you’re not comfortable in. If you like, you can wear the same  judicial clothes you wear to court,” he said calmly, putting himself between Peter and Tony.

“They’re not—never mind.” Peter slumped. “They’ll work.” He left the room.

As soon as the door closed behind him Steve hurried back over to Tony. “How is it?” he asked cupping his husband’s face. His heart clenched at how pale his spouse was.

Tony gave a dry chuckle that turned into a cough and soon he was coughing blood into the handkerchief that Steve held against his mouth. He sat there, gasping for breath when the coughing fit ended. “We don’t have much time,” he whispered.

“We’ll make it,” Steve assured him. He gently put a hand on Tony’s shoulder and and Tony saw the barely concealed wince.

So far, the two of them had managed to keep Tony’s condition a secret from the rest of the court. So far, the clothes Tony was wearing hid the rapid weight loss. So far  Steve had been playing the part of the pining husband, pulling Tony away from meetings before people could see his stamina running out. So far no one had noticed that, even when it was so hot outside that water left in full sun boiled on its own, Tony always wore thick, winter style robes.

So far.

Tony reached up and gripped Steve’s hand. “Promise me,” he ordered. “If this—if this fails and it looks like Osborn’s about to take the throne, grab Peter and run. Don’t stop until you get to your home country.”

“It won’t fail,” Steve whispered as he gently hugged his husband.

“Promise,” whispered Tony.

Maybe it was because people  had always looked down on him. Maybe it was because he’d always been mocked. Maybe it was because he didn’t like bullies.

Or maybe he just needed an excuse to vent all the rage that had been boiling up in him for  _years_ .

So when he saw the frail old donkey being whipped for not being able to pull a load three times her size, well—hello excuse. He growled, rushed across the street, and grabbed the man with the whip, hauling him into the air. The man caught a look of his face and paled.

Most people did. That, or scream. Or spit. Or whatever.

“You bastard,” he snarled.

“Hold!” an authoritative voice commanded.

He held. As much as he wanted to hurt the man in his grip, as much as he needed to vent—he knew that people who could speak like that had the power to make his life even more miserable than it already was. He slowly set the man back on the ground as a young man, younger than either of them and wearing the fine clothes of a noble, strode angrily towards them.

He was in trouble again. He couldn't help but wince thinking of how  _they_ were going to react when they learned about it. And, of course, no one would ask  _him_ what happened, or care about the poor old donkey. No one ever did.

The young man stared at man he’d been about to pummel and demanded, “What do you think you’re doing? That load is clearly far too large for that donkey!”

What? He knew he was staring—but so was everyone else. His abused brain tried desperately to understand what was going on. He had been threatening the man beating the donkey—and he _wasn’t_ the one in trouble?

“Paragraph Four, subsection II of Animal Rights clearly states that ‘just as a man cannot reasonably be expected to carry more than half his body weight, neither can the beasts of oxen, donkey, horse, or mule.’ You are in clear violation of this legal code whose penalties include asset seizure, mandatory reevaluation, and up to ten years in the quarry, depending on if the judge is lenient.” The young man crossed his arms over his chest and demanded, “Well? Have you anything to say in your defense?”

“I—” the man looked around, eyes wide—and bolted, only to be tripped by a waiting guard.

The blond guard looked up with a wry grin as the man groaned on the ground. “Just another day at work, eh Your Honor?”

The young man rolled his eyes before turning to him. He immediately dropped his gaze, wishing he could hide his face. He didn’t want the young man to see his scars.

The young man gently rapped his shoulder with a knuckle. “You did well,” the young man said warmly, “protecting the donkey like that. I might not have physically picked him up—but I’m smaller.”

He looked up, startled, and stared into a pair of warm, kind eyes. Soft brown eyes that looked like they could envelope him. Keep him safe.

What was he thinking? _No one_ would keep him safe! No one wanted to!

“Well, I—ah, I don’t know all that legal shit either,” he mumbled. “Just—just knew it was wrong.”

“And that is a wondrous thing in and of itself,” the young man said, the tone warmer than anything he knew. At that moment his stomach rumbled and he would have cursed himself for the bodily betrayal, but the young man simply laughed. “Come,” the young man said. “Let us get something to eat.”

He hesitated. He wanted to get something to eat—but he didn’t have the money and the mere thought of asking _them_ if he could have food was enough to send his stomach into revolt. “I—I can’t.”

“No worries,” the young man replied calmly. “As thanks for your public act of service, I will be paying.”

He, the one who kept getting beat because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut, couldn't say anything. The young man gently grabbed one of his arms and he stared at the smooth, silky skin contrasting his dark, mottled scars. Tears pricking at the edge of his vision made it look like the mottled skin was starting to bleed into the pure skin, contaminating it.

The young man ignored the unshed tears. Or, maybe, the young man didn’t see them. He didn’t usually think the best of people (there weren’t a lot of people to think well of), but there was something about this young man. Something innocent—but powerful at the same time.

“Your Honor,” the guard said with warning in his tone.

Once again the young man rolled his eyes. “It’ll be fine.” The young man gently towed him down the road to the tables outside of a bakery. “Two trench platters,” the young man ordered. The serving wench gave the young man a saucy wink—and him a worried glance.

It was all right. He knew that his appearance could be startling. He was more confused by the young man’s calm acceptance. “I didn’t know it was illegal,” he felt compelled to admit.

Instead of being disgusted, the young man simply smiled. “A crime of compassion,” he said warmly. “I could easily wish for more of them on my docket.” The serving wench came back and, with another awkward glance at him, deposited two tankards on the table. “So, my name’s Peter,” the young man said warmly.

He panicked, a little. What was his name? The closest to a name he could think of was when he was ordered to wade the canal—when he was shorter than the water level. “Wade?” he asked hesitantly.

The smile from the young man, from _Peter_ , was blinding. “Wade’s a nice name,” the boy said warmly.

Peter barely managed not to cringe at the elaborate monstrosity they wanted to shove him into for display. Overlapping plates of gold (not gold plated, no— _real_ gold!) looked like scales that were delicately picked out in silver. At each shoulder were two ropes of red braid that looped around. It was horrible. It was awful.

There was no way that Peter was wearing that. “No,” he said flatly.

The aid (a “gift” from Uncle Norman who saw nothing wrong with treating people like property) shook. “Sire?” the small man asked pitifully.

Peter crossed his arms. “I,” he said firmly, “am _not_ wearing that.”

“But Sire, the suit is a gift.”

The suit was a monster. When Peter looked at it all he could think about was how many people the gold it took to make the thing would feed. How many guards it would pay. How many streets it could fix. How many wells it could sink. And, instead, it was sitting on a suit that would never be worn, and that people would tell him needed to be put in the treasure room. So, in effect, the suit was less than worthless and Peter wasn’t having anything to do with it.

“I’ve already spoken to Father and Pops,” Peter said firmly. “I’ll be attending in my judicial robes.”

The small man gasped. “But Sire,” he protested, “how will people know that you’re the prince?”

Peter smiled. “They won’t,” he said with satisfaction.

Shiklah was waiting for him when he got home. “About time you got here,” she growled. “Get your costume on. You have a job.”

He knew what kind of job she meant. How could he not? “I don’t want to,” he said. He’d meant to announce it loud and clear, but the words came out in a whisper. He knew he was going to have to, and normally it didn’t bother him too much—but he couldn't stop thinking about the young man. About _Peter_. And about Peter’s respect for the law and his plans to make sure the law was equally upheld for all—nobles and commoners alike. And w hat Shiklah wanted him to do—was not legal by any means.

Shiklah’s face contorted with rage and she reached out with her hand cupped to make her nails look like claws as she grabbed the back of his neck and yanked him forward. He yelped involuntarily as she dragged him through the house to the room with the mirror and he flailed as he recognized where they were going—but he didn’t dare strike her.

She dragged him over to the mirror and forced him to look at his reflection. “Look at yourself,” she commanded. “Look at the horrible, disgusting mess you are.” The scars stood out in stark relief against his skin, inflamed and slightly mottled making his appearance even more horrific.

But—Peter hadn’t flinched away. Peter had, in fact, _taken his arm_ , eaten across a table from him, _laughed with him_. Peter hadn’t cared.

Shiklah grabbed the mask and held against Wade’s face. “You _will_ wear it, and you _will_ do your job,” she hissed.

He wouldn't.

He did.

Steve held Tony as coughs racked his body. The illness was progressing quickly. Too quickly. They were running out of time. “Hold on,” he murmured gently. “Everything’s prepared; you just need to hold on.”

They had priests, ready to perform instant ceremonies for those who wished it, ready to be out and about for the party. (It had taken some fancy verbal footwork to get them to agree, and in the end Tony had solved the issue by “donating” an obscene amount to the church.) There were private little nooks built into the dance floor, where someone as shy as Peter could meet someone face to face. The food being prepared was all finger food, designed for people to be able to eat and mingle at the same time. (The cook had thrown a fit at the lack of a dough subtlety, but Steve had pointed out the extra challenge in making a true Court Feast in bite sized bits.) The only thing they couldn't do, couldn't prepare for, was Peter actually connecting with someone.

Tony gasped as the coughing finally eased. He opened his mouth to speak—

“Aye curramba,” a voice said. Steve whirled as he drew his sword. Some people believed the Consort’s sword was ceremonial, but Steve knew better. He stared at the red leather clad form lounging on the balcony (and how had he gotten there? They were three floors up). The man dropped to the floor of the balcony and strode quickly towards the two of them, ignoring the sword.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Steve, putting himself between the intruder and his husband.

“Sheesh, a guy goes to do you a favor and here you are with the sword and all the stabby-stabby,” If he’d been able to see the intruder’s eyes, Steve would have bet they were rolling. “Calm down Blondie. I just came to warn you.”

“Warn us of what?” demanded Tony. He looked as though he was standing tall on his own, but Steve could see how he was leaning against a marble statue.

“Someone is trying to kill you before the party tomorrow night,” said the masked man.

There were a lot of people who would want the current king dead before the prince found a consort of his own. “How do you know?” demanded Steve.

“Because they hired me to do it.” If Steve could have reinforced his defensive stance, he would have. “Chill, chill,” the masked man said as he waved his arms in the air. “I’m not gonna do it. Actually, if they’d asked me yesterday, I probably _would_ have, but today I met a doe-eyed angel all about law and order and I don’t think he’d take kindly to me killing his king.” All levity left his voice as he added, “Even _if_ that wasn’t the case, I don’t claim Lady Death’s victims early.”

“So why are you here?” asked Steve. He was relaxing—but he didn’t drop his sword.

“Just to let you know,” the masked man said cheerfully. “Oh, I wonder if Peter’s here.”

“Peter?” Steve couldn't tell which of them said it. Maybe both did.

“Peter! Petey-Pie! Sweetie Petey!” The masked man clasped two hands to his chest swooned backwards. “I’m gonna go look for him!”

The two of them stood, in silence, for a moment. “Well,” said Steve, trying to see the bright side of the situation. “If he marries Peter, at least our son will be protected.”

Tony just swore between coughs.

“But Peter,” Harry said, face drooping with misery, “if you don’t wear your suit, I’ll be the only one dressed like that!”

Peter gently pat his friend’s arm. “Well, look on the bright side.”

“Bright side.”

“You’re bound to find someone you want at the party,” Peter said. “And, with you dressed like that, no way are they going to say ‘no’ if you ask them.”

“And you don’t think that’ll cause problems later?” demanded Harry snappishly.

Peter shrugged. “I think that once you’re married you’re no longer a child in the eyes of the law and that doesn’t change if said marriage gets annulled. And,” Peter added with insider knowledge, “your grandfather left _you_ a significant inheritance so you won’t be dependent on your father’s goodwill.”

“Not that my father _has_ goodwill,” muttered Harry. “Listen, Peter—”

“I knew he’d be here!” The two of them turned to see a masked man in a full-body leather outfit dancing towards them.

Peter squinted. There was something about the bouncy way the man was moving, about the happy way he spoke. “Wade?” he asked.

“Petey-Pie! Sugar plum! Sweetheart!” Wade grabbed him and hugged him tight enough to squeeze the air out his lungs. “It’s been too long.”

Peter grinned. Something about the other man made him happy, even though it had only been a couple days since they’d met. “It has,” he agreed in a squeak. Wade gently let him down. “Wade, this is Harry. Harry, this is Wade.”

Harry nodded, sharp eyes going to his friend. Peter didn’t randomly introduce strangers. “Nice to meet you Wade,” Harry said politely.

“Nice to meet you Harry,” Wade said cheerfully.

“Listen,” said Peter eagerly, “I’m glad you’re here. There’s going to be a huge party tomorrow night—”

“Oh! I heard all about that! To help the prince find his main squeeze, am I right?”

Peter couldn’t help but grin at Wade’s description. “That’s exactly it,” he said. “Will you come?”

Wade suddenly backed up, looking nervous. All right, his body language looked nervous. “I don’t—”

“Please?” asked Peter.

Wade looked from side to side before he said, “For you!” He gave Peter another hug before he threw himself out of the window.

“Your dads are going to _freak_ ,” Harry said ominously.

“Why didn’t you complete the job?” demanded Shiklah.

Here’s the thing. In skin, Wade was shy, submissive, and painfully aware of himself. In the mask? He was unstoppable—even for the Queen Bitch herself. It was shocking that Petey-Pie had even realized they were the same person, honestly.

Wade lounged in his seat at a table, propping his feet up on the wood. “I told you,” he said with a smile she couldn't see, “I don’t bother killing people who are already dying.”

She glared at him. “It doesn’t matter if he’s dying or not,” she said tartly. “He needs to die _now_.”

“I don’t care.”

“We don’t get paid if _he_ doesn’t die.”

“ _You_ don’t get paid. _I_ don’t get paid at all.” His mind wandered to the sweet little brunette. Soft, pliant, happy to see him—and the kid _knew_ what he looked like. And was _still_ happy to see him. _And_ invited him to the big, fancy shindig. Sweet, sweet Peter.

“Are you listening to me?”

“No.”

Shiklah glared at him, reached out, and ripped the mask off. “Basement,” she growled as he trembled. “Now.”

Wade scurried to obey as Shiklah followed him and locked—but he _was_ going to get out and get to that party!

Peter watched from his hiding place as Harry forced a grin for the seventeenth young woman to walk up to him that evening. The party hadn’t even been going on for an _hour_. Harry’s father was watching the boy with eagle eyes and quickly shooing people away—but that was just because he _knew_ what Peter had recently informed Harry of: once he married, he was an _adult_ in the eyes of the law and no longer subject to being controlled by his parents.

Peter leaned back against the wall as he sipped his drink and allowed his eyes to scan the room. No one was going up to _him—_ because in his simple judge robes he looked no more important than any other noble in attendance—while _Harry_ looked like a prince. Peter found it amusing.

He desperately needed something to be amused by, or the anxiety was going to eat him alive. He wasn’t willing to admit that he was looking for a certain figure. Hoping that person would show up.

“ _You’ll know the right one when you meet them.”_

Peter hadn’t known what his father meant by that at the time, but now he did. Now, as he waited for someone who might or might not show up.  He looked at the ruby liquid in his cup. Perhaps Wade hadn’t felt the same way. Sure, he’d  _sounded_ happy at being invited, but—no. No, the party hadn’t even been going on for an hour. He needed to be patient.

Wade finally wiggled free of the tiny, tiny window. He ignored the blood oozing down his sides from where he’d scraped against the wood, but he’d managed to get out. True, he now had to pop his arm back into socket, but he was out! He could go the party!

As soon as he got some clothes…

“Has he seen anyone yet?” Tony asked desperately. It was getting harder to breathe. He didn’t know how much longer he had, and Peter _had_ to be married before he died. He _had_ to. Tony didn’t want to think of what would happen if the kingdom slid to the next family in line…

“Not yet,” Steve said. Tony could see that his husband’s lips were pursed and repressed an irrational desire to kiss them back into shape. They didn’t have time.

Not enough time.

Peter nearly grinned when he saw the large man, dressed in what looked like bits of people’s shrubbery, wearing a giant leaf with holes poked out of it over his eyes. He rushed over as the scarred man fidgeted while looking around. “Wade!” he said happily.

“Peter!” Wade said, just as happily. He went to hug—and stopped. “Sorry, Pete,” he said with a shy smile. “Some of these are roses.”

Peter looked and sure enough—there were some rose vines among the buses around Wade’s waist. He grinned. “Only you,” he said fondly.

“Oh, of course,” said Wade cheekily.

“Hey, you want to get married?” Wade stepped back in shock. “I mean, there are priests everywhere. If you want to.”

“So the Royal Prince can get married,” said Wade softly.

Had Wade figured it out? “Yeah,” said Peter. “They really want him married.”

Wade looked over to the shining gold spectacle that was Harry and snorted. “They need to stop hovering over him,” he said.

Peter grinned. “True,” he admitted.

Wade fidgeted again. “Do you—really want to marry me?” he asked. 

Peter reached out and gently took one of the large, scarred, and soft hands. “I can’t imagine marrying anyone else,” he said earnestly.

Tony leaned, desperately, against the table behind him. He hoped he was making it look like he was purposefully leaning, and not like he needed the table to stand—which he did. He smirked out at the assembled guests, who had all quieted when the trumpets sounded. “As you all know, this party is to help my son find his partner. Someone he’s willing to spend the rest of his life with.” The crowd, on command, cooed. Norman leaned against the wall looking smug.

Tony was willing to bet the bastard knew exactly how ill he was. How close to death he was. How close to the throne that Norman was…

But not today. “Tell me, Son,” Tony said addressing the audience, “have you found that person?”

“I have,” said Peter. Smugly. Tony watched as Peter led a scarred man wearing what seemed to be branches and vines towards the stage.

What kind of monster had his child hooked up with? “So, Peter, introduce us to your spouse.”

The monster looked flabbergasted. “Prince? Peter, you’re the  _prince_ ?” he hissed.

Tony felt one of his eyebrows raise. The man hadn’t  _known_ ? And had married his son anyway?

Peter simply smiled, took their clasped hands to his mouth, and kissed the back of it before turning to address the public. “This,” he said, clearly enunciating to be heard even in the back of the room, “is Wade Stark, my lawfully married husband.”

“No!” shrieked Norman. He rushed forwards.

Tony stared in shock as Wade dropped Peter’s hand, grabbed one of the vines around his own waist, and then caught Norman with said vine around his throat, pulling until the man stopped moving—which took surprisingly little time.  The man stood up and tucked his hands behind his back. “Sorry, Petey-Pie,” he said sheepishly.

The same man that had broken into Tony’s rooms earlier. As his mind whirled with this new information Steve simply looked at the new addition to the family. “Are you wearing our shrubbery?”

“Maybe.”


End file.
